


pov McCree/King – McCree meets King

by kiddcorp



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 16:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiddcorp/pseuds/kiddcorp
Summary: requests are taken at pillowfort.io/kiddcorp





	pov McCree/King – McCree meets King

“Where’s yer King?”

McCree didn’t stress the rope around his wrists, knotted so tight it made his fingers numb and about chafed his skin through his leather gloves. He didn’t purposefully walk too fast or too slow as to perturb his captures. He didn’t mess up his footing or pull on the line to the horse leading him. He was a willing hostage: needed to get somewhere he had no directions to, see someone he had no information on. McCree was only happy that one of his takers had spared his hat and gun – at kind request, securing them undamaged to the tow – before loosely zip tying a heavy burlap sack over his head.

It was more than half a day of hiking along endless miles of broken trails and wading through deep rivers that led them high into the mountains. From the movement of the sun across his back, McCree knew they were headed north, steadily so, barely moving off the compass. Every few hours they would rest, filling emptied canteens riverside, cooling off the horses, stretching their legs and sore asses. McCree was surprised when they cut a slit in the bag across his lips and gave him his fill of cool water, let him breathe the chilled air of higher elevation. Someone would ever guide him every stop to a rock or fallen tree to sit. He made sure to thank them for each show of generosity. There was always an echo of ‘you’re welcome’ but each time it was a new voice, a new count for the tally in his head.

There seemed to be more and more each time he tried to listen to the hooves of the horses around him. He would’ve preferred voices. Voices were much more distinct, but this company didn’t talk. There was the crunching of gathering snow, the rustle of clothes and the tow moving with the horses, rushing water and snapping sticks. But no speech, no code, no communication yielded little accuracy for guesstimating. Until a distant call reverberated through the mountains. It rang out loud and clear, quieting the world in contrast. A member of his group shouted back in a language McCree didn’t catch.

As the team angled up another steep incline, where soft underbrush became metal, it wasn’t another hundred yards before the group stopped again. Weathered metal hinges cracked open, loud and sudden enough to have McCree jerking back from what he couldn’t see. Where silence had reigned, a chorus of multiple languages rose to overtake it. Happiness and greetings and laughter surrounded him. The lead tie was cut and his arms fell. No one came to loosen his wrists and he certainly wasn’t about to free himself.

A flat palm pressed onto the back of his shoulder, easy and gloved, “Move forward.”

He did slowly. Through the crowd and into a building where his spurs clinked on hardwood and caught on rug fibers. Down a long corridor, passing people along the way, McCree made sure to sometimes brush into some of them On accident of course. It wasn’t calming to find each one decked out in sturdy riot gear. Nearly all of them, however, apologized, excused themselves. What nice people. Must have been trained well.

“Wait here.”

He stood and waited, half expecting to be guided eventually to sit, but this time no one came. The room was large, echoing with noises from a vaulted ceiling, the air warm from a fireplace somewhere in front of him. Smoke and incense filled his lungs and he was eased by the scent. There were others in the room, noising on leather furniture as they broke down weapons, speaking quiet Chamorro, stern Russian and loud German, and another quiet one he couldn’t place. Many passed through the room on heavy boots, heading off in many different directions. Only one bumped into him. On purpose. No apology. McCree nearly fell to his knees at the unexpected force. Someone else helped him keep balance before moving on.

It was a few minutes before another conversation bled into earshot. From deep within the compound, English language became gradually louder as the speakers neared. The masculine voice was Australian, words twanged with the accent, and they were speaking more often than the feminine tone, softer and unaccented as it was. One of them had to be King. To appear less threatening, McCree slouched his shoulders to shrink his broad form, drew in his stance for narrowness. Anything that would help him keep his head was something worth doing. The volume of the Australian died when the pair of footsteps stopped.

Cool metal pressed into McCree’s throat, the sharp edge digging up under the ziptie to break it. Gentle hands pulled off the burlap sack. The first breath completely unobstructed was heaven. As was the view of the woman before him. Her kind eyes were creased with laugh lines. McCree could tell in his peripheral that her body was covered only with a sheer wrap hung loose and low around her hips. Her bare chest was decorated with obvious, thick scars that littered her shoulders and ribs. Never a stupid man, McCree kept focus on her face. She noticed.

“You can look.” Her smile was kind too. The immediate sneer on the face of the Australian male was a sign not to comply.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, ma’am.”

“Why did you want to see me, Jesse McCree?”

McCree drew back his head. He hadn’t expected to be known so quickly. “Null Sector, ma’am. Your win against them in Morocco saved thousands of lives. I wanted to thank you and to offer my help wherever you can use it.”

She clicked her tongue. “We welcome your aid, McCree. And don’t worry, we’ll return your hat and gun shortly.”

**Author's Note:**

> requests are taken at pillowfort.io/kiddcorp


End file.
